When It Ends
by ashewoodwitch
Summary: After Sburb, the world is rebuilt in an odd hodgepodge of Earth and Beforus. The children are living with their alpha equivalents. Dave is coping badly with PTSD, and Dirk is just trying to hold him together and pull him along even as he deals with the guilt of having feelings for him. Stridercest/DirkDave
1. The Beginning (Oh No, He's Hot)

It isn't really the most fantastic meeting, but it is what it is.

In the time after you do the impossible, you beat the game, there is no time for hellos and wow hi you must be my mom/brodad/nanna/grandpa/grandma/poppop-theres only time for okay go through this door you too trolls will we survive will it fix everything is it a trick?

You have no answers.

As soon as the door shuts behind the last of you, you all hit the floor.

What do you want? More than anything else in the multiverses you want? The voice is unfamiliar but the words are spoken kindly, and you can't help answering, I want for everyone to live. The voice finds that funny or cute, you suppose-it giggles. Okay. I can do that. Wake now, Dirk Strider. Wake and see what you've earned.

-  
When you wake, it's in your own bed, in your own house, and you curse loudly.

It isn't until a moment later that you realize there's sound all around you, that there are horns beeping and screeching tires and music drifting up from some space below your room.

What?

You sit up-stretch-grab a pair of pajama pants from your dresser-and walk out of your bedroom door, scratching at your chest lightly.

You find Dave in the kitchen with wet eyes. A cabinet is open, katanas and shuriken and the like pouring out, and the other blond hardly looks up at you before you crouches to help put them up. "Hey, sorry about that-didn't know it would transfer to our reset, jesus. Might've cleaned up a bit if I had."

He looks at you as though he's seeing a ghost. "...I'm used to it-Bro. Bro used to do the same thing. Said it kept me on my toes or some shit."

You smile a little at that, just a hint, and nod. "I just think it's funny to put shit where it doesn't belong." Well, you aren't going to lie to him-but that seems to have made him feel a little better, a similar smile crossing his lips. Dodging blades, you make waffles, and the first real conversation you have with Dave is about UFOs.

He's lovely, you think, the artist in you pointing out the shape of his jaw, the sharpness of his collarbones, and for that moment, all it is is artistic appreciation.

In time, you hear from the others-Roxy first, then Jane, then Jake, and Dave is on pesterchum with his little quad as soon as they wake that first day. They're all okay-paired off by line of extobiological fuckery, like the two of you-and one by one, trolls start blowing up Dave's phone. Karkat first-furious to be stuck with his ecto-whatever, you forget what the word is, but before long, the troll has both of you humans laughing with his descriptions of him. The others trickle in-Karkat tells you when someone sends him a message, and there are trolls who contact Dave directly-'uHH, dOES THE PHRASE, wELCOME TO NAM MEAN, uH, aNYTHING TO YOU, oR,,,'

Jake messages you, excited, and you discover that the blue troll girl he'd dreamed about is indeed real and has sent him a message, affectionate and chatty. Through networking, you find everyone is here, that all who played are living.

Nothing comes from Calliope or Caliborn, and for that, you are grateful.

It takes a long time for Dave to stop flinching when you do something that reminds him of his Bro-months and months, almost a year. On bad days, the two of you communicate entirely through Pesterchum-"you sound like him," he'd explained the first time, tears rolling down his cheeks, "you sound just fucking like him and its a little much to handle im sorry" "It's okay," you sent back, "I understand. Just tell me when I need to message you instead, okay? We can come up with some badass signal, it'll be good."

You end up not needing a signal at all-shades or no shades, you can read Dave like a novel and all he has to do is give you a look before you're typing a 'Good morning.' to him.

It takes all of about four months to realize that you don't just find him aestetically pleasant. He opens to you slowly, and you're pleased to find that you honestly appreciate the effort it takes to gain his trust. It feels as though you've always known him, really, and considering your genetic connections, you suppose it makes sense in an odd way.

You still feel embarrassingly special when he asks your opinion on his 'new SBAHJ shit'.

(His words, not yours. It was comedic genius in your universe and it still is in this new one, even if you're one of only perhaps a hundred people who actually avidly read it. Fervently, you want Dave to do as your Bro did and flourish because of the comics, you want him to direct them and get the appreciation for them he deserves.)

At first, you try to pass your attraction off as an infatuation. You've never been ignorant of your sexual preference, even alone in the post-apocolypse, and perhaps actually living around another guy is just too much for your hormones.

(You ignore your logic: 'You fell for Jake over the internet, nitwit, and had nowhere this reaction to him when the two of you were face to face at last.')

It doesn't take long for guilt to start eating away at you, but you just can't stop-it's addictive, to be around Dave, and so you allow yourself to sink deeper into your newfound dependence on his attention, shocked and pleased when you see that he too goes out of his way to spend time with you.

Your first spar comes six months into living together.

You've been scared to ask, instead stealing away an hour or two at a time on the roof with Brobot (returned after yours and Jake's breakup) to keep your skills sharp and offering him or any of the others to Dave in case he'd like to practice.

When he bumps against your shoulder in the hall in the way of greeting, you don't think a thing about it-but the following, "Meet me on the roof in ten?" stops you short. "Sure," you say slowly, and ask, "Blades or bodies?" "Blades. I don't pull that vaudevillian bull English and Egbert do."

Excellent.

It's a long fight-and Dave seems shocked by that. You'll ask why later-for now, you simply hold up a hand to each other when you need a water break, sitting side by side and swapping the bottle back and forth. (Maybe you've watched too much anime in your lifetime-the thought that comes to mind is that you're indirectly kissing.) Once you're refreshed enough to continue, you start again.

You win, and feel like the world's worst villain when you do. Blood is drawn-from both sides, of course, little nicks here and there, actual cuts when one of you found a good opening-but this is awful. This will scar.

When all Dave does is get up, say good match, and head for the first aid kit, you hate your alternate self more than anything and anyone because it's obvious from the tension in his shoulders that he's hiding pain, thinks he has a reason to, and the fact that he doesn't ask if you'll help patching up almost certainly means that he thinks he'd get a no, anyway.

You ignore his protests and pick him up, careful not to touch his wounds-damnit, that last one's deep: thank god you can sew-and after a moment, he stops struggling. You set him down on the toilet lid and strip him down to boxers before you dig for the kit under the sink, and the silence that follows is an intense one: he's trying to find motives behind this help, you're sure, and you're just trying to make your stitches even and neat, so the scar won't puff up when it heals.

He avoids you for a while after that, and you wonder if it's because of what you did or because of what other-you didn't.

You go on outtings, occasionally. You're kicked out of the museum on main because you pose inappropriately with the statues, but the way Dave laughs is worth it. Your visit to the zoo is an oddly serious one, an artistic venture, and there's silence as you sketch, as Dave takes pictures of any and everything. (Including you, you find out later, and damn is he a good photographer: you're attractive but you're not that attractive, and he somehow finds the angles that make you seem almost godly without even alerting you.) Once you find out you both crave creative outlets. you plan a trip out every week: sometimes, those outtigs are stupid ones, ones where Dave's camera isn't used to capture beauty but to capture stupidity (more often than not your stupidity), and sometimes they're like going to the zoo, quiet and peaceful and everything you thought you'd never want again after living so long in silence.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, Dave will get up for a glass of water and wonder into your room sleepily, thinking it's his. He'll lay down, never even aknowledging you're awake no matter how bright the room is, and curl up, and fall asleep.

You can admit to moments of weakness in which you wait until he snores and curl up behind him, getting all the sleep you can but always waking before him-he sleeps like the dead, sleeps like a rock, and you can't help but be glad, because how would he react if he did wake?

Other times, he comes in on purpose, red eyes all the blearier for a lack of sleep, and he watches you work on things: asks questions about wiring, laughs when you offer to teach him. "Not my kind of thing," he says every time, and you shrug before grabbing something to work on and sitting beside him on your bed. "Fine, I won't 'teach' you-but you'll be able to see better."

Half the time he leans on you until you're finished and then pads out. The other half, he falls right asleep with his head on your shoulder, and you decide (tell yourself) it's ironic to tuck him into your bed and sleep above the blankets, not trusting that you won't touch him.

Sometimes-and this is rare-but sometimes, when you can't read another line of code, can't do another damn thing to your robots, and you've shut them all down for the night, you can hear him through the wall.

You lay in bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling, and once you've been there and still for an hour, you'll hear a moan, still quiet-he's scared to wake you, completely unaware that you, too, sleep hard when you actually manage to doze off. A shift, a whine. It's all your fault he gets so fucking worked up-he's probably terrified that you'll tease him if you're 'awake' to hear, probably puts it off and puts it off until he thinks it's safe. It's awful of you, but your hand is sliding down your chest as you wonder what he's doing, how he looks. Did he even bother stripping down? Or has he had enough, only barely bothering to unzip his jeans and push his boxers down so he can pull his cock out? Does he spit on his hand to make it easier or does he use lube? Does he even bother with an aid of any kind-porn or magazines or anything? Who does he think of?

Tonight is no different from those before. You've stripped down, bare beneath the blankets you've tugged up in case he walks in before starting for the night. Your door is open so you can feel the AC once you fall asleep, and also so you can hear him better even through /his/ door. After about half an hour, his music is shut off, no more low, thudding bass. You breathe as quietly as you can, knowing he won't make a sound for a long while after that but wanting to hear just in case anyway. You don't let yourself think-no, you won't last long if you do. You want to last as long as he does.

And so you lay here for at least twenty minutes, naked beneath soft sheets, before he makes a peep. Tonight, you go all out-not with touching yourself, no, but your imagination, how you imagine he's doing this. Teasing himself and going slowly, unintentionally putting on a show, seeking a slow build. Tweaking his nipples and scratching at his stomach, making marks he's pretending someone else is making, claming himself for the person he imagines. You can tell when he actually touches himself-/that/, you are proud of, for listening so carefully you can tell the difference in touching his body and touching his dick simply by sound. He gasps softly, and there's a pause before he cries out all the louder-you mimic the motions you imagine he's making, snagging the lube that's been warming in its bottle against your side and coating your hand with it before curling it around yourself. It's hard to keep quiet-especially after years of being the only one around to hear-but you do it, absolutely spellbound, and a moment more has you questioning if he even closed his door-you swear you can hear the slick slap of his hand moving, slowing in case it is the case and he can hear you too.

"D-nnn-" Your heart skips a beat, and your hand stutters. No way. No fucking way was that what you thought it was-why would he ever call for you like that? He wouldn't, you tell yourself. He thinks you're like his Bro, and damnit he was raised in homophobic Texas, he isn't gay, much less for the pathetic likes of you. But now isn't the time for self-hatred, and for now you can pretend-can pretend that he's biting back your name, that he's reddening his lower lip with the way his teeth clamp down so it won't escape. He whimpers, too soft to be drifting through the wall and yes, yes, he's got his door open holy shit. He doesn't always, you know-usually, you hear him get up and open it before you fall asleep-but it seems tonight is a special treat. There's another slick sound, and you hear the springs creak as he arches his back-a moment later he falls back to the mattress again, and you know you were right in the assumption. "Shiiiit... Mmm." ...you haven't heard him sound quiet like that, and you're curious. What /is/ he doing?

You wish you could see.

You won't risk looking, though, and instead you enjoy the sounds, eyes closing as you twist your fingers around yourself and hiss.

It never feels as good to cum as it does when you're listening to Dave, and if that makes you a freak, well, okay. You clean up in silence and curl up with your pillow, wishing it was him.

Your first birthday together is an awkward affair. You're used to getting presents, of course-used to Jane's yearly cake, something fucking hilarous from Roxy, and a 'cinema classic' from Jake, but you're not used to sharing it, not used to the big deal that's made of it this year.

Everyone gathers because theres are six of you with birthdays in the same week, and you find yourself giving five presents and getting twenty goddamn presents, holy shit. None of the trolls know you well and so they team up with their 'hatchmates'-those with the same-colored blood-to give you things, each more reflective of their interests than yours, and for some reason, you really like that-in an odd way, their gift is letting you know them a little bit.

You don't care that Dave gets more than you-silly as it is, you're glad. You like knowing that everyone else appreciates him, as they should-he's showered in thank-yous for all he did in the Game, showered in presents from every side.

Irrational jealousy springs up when the elder Nitram slings an arm around his shoulders and together they tease the younger, but you slide in smoothly to defend him and when the huge group of you get in planes to go home, heading in all different directions, you've forgotten about it.

He's been taking everything well, or so you think, and so it's terrifying when he finally breaks down.


	2. Oh Hell Yes

You go looking for him, wanting a spar, and hear sobbing as you come to his door. "...Dave?" "Fuck," you hear him mutter under his breath, and there's the slick sound of a sniffle before he speaks up, "Yeah?"

"You okay?"

"'M fine."

"You sure?"

"Said I'm fine."

A beat of silence.

"No you're not."

He sobs, and you open the door to find him curled up on his bed.

"Go away."

"No."

He doesn't look up at you, and that's okay. You take your shades off and set them by his before sitting down and gently setting a hand on his back. "What's wrong?"

Now he shifts to look at you with reddened red eyes, bloodshot and beautiful and tearing at your stomach, and says nothing. You can feel him jump when you put your arms around him, and you pull him into your lap. "Talk to me." He shrinks against you and you give him a squeeze, reassuring. After a moment more, he settles against you, head on your shoulder, and asks quietly, "Is it-is it okay for us to talk about him? For me to want to?" You don't have to ask which 'him'-you know to your core, know why he must be asking, know this is going to hurt and so purposefully, you dodge a straight answer. "Do you feel like talking about him?" "Yeah." "Then it's okay."

He shifts, and you rub his back absently.

"He was nothing like you are," is the first thing out of Dave's mouth, and your brows raise. "But at the same time, you're really simiar." Ah, the other foot falls. You rest your head against his. "Elaborate?" you prompt softly, and he sniffles. "...He hardly spoke. He was never around. He'd leave without telling me and show up again a month later, fully expecting me to spar when I hadn't even eaten real food for weeks." You squeeze him tighter unintentionally, and it spurs on his careful words. "He sure as hell wasn't affectionate, not like you are. A lot of the time, I questioned if he gave a damn about me at all, wondered if he was raising me because he thought it was the right thing to do. Didn't realize until the game ended that he was prparing me for slaughter, so even if I didn't live, I would die with a hell of a fight. I guess that means he did care. Dunno, he cut a meteor in half so I wouldn't die. Guess that's concern, huh?" His laugh is bitter and short, and all you can do is nod. Tears are still squeezing out of his eyes. "So why should did it rip me to shreds when I found him? Why did I fucking care? He was a douchebag. He scared me with his stupid fucking puppets and treated me like shit, who even cares if it was for a good reason? Who cares if he was grooming me to be a badass player? Who even fucking cares..."

"I care."

Softly, he replies, "I know," and goes on.

"But then again, I mean. It's not like I could exactly complain. He made sure I had cool shit. He got me apple juice. He raised me, fed me, no matter how inconsistantly. He made a huge fuss about the school trying to make me take off my shades, knew I'd get made fun of. Taught me to weild a blade. I should be thankful, but I guess I'm just a brat. Maybe that's why he treated me like shit. Because he knew I'd grow up to be a brat." You shake your head and he shakes his, slumping against you tiredly.

"Sometimes, you remind me of him," Dave murmurs, and he sounds guilty. How often is sometimes? you ask yourself, but don't say it aloud. "But only sometimes. Your voice is like his, when I can remember how he sounded. You make the dumb puppets too, but at least you keep them put away all nice and neat. You're better than I am at fighting, but you don't kick my ass just because you can. He never gave me a single fucking lesson, just shoved a blade in my hands and told me to swing before ripping me to shreds, you know that? Not a one. Your hair sticks up like his did-or, I guess, you do your hair like he did his. You're nicer than he was, by a longshot. This... shit, even if he would've lived, he wouldn't do this for me, wouldn't give a fuck that I'm upset, would tell me to suck it up and move on, but here you are, trying to make me feel better, listening to me bitch. You're so much better. You're a better person than he was, and I'm awful for talking ill of the dead." He sighs softly and hides his face against the crook of your neck, the wetness on his face cold against the heat of your skin.

"...will you stay?" he asks, voice tiny. "Just-just for a little bit? Can we stay like this for a little while, or lay down or-or something? And just...fuck, this is stupid. Never mind, you probably-"You shake your head, shushing him gently. "It's not stupid, and I'd be glad to stay. Lemme take off my shoes and we'll lay down, alright?" He nods against you and pulls away so you can untie your Converses, peeling back the covers and settling under them. You try to lay atop them but he grabs for you, lifts them again so you'll lay beneath them. Your heart clenches at the look he's giving you, and you have to hide a smile when he tucks himself against your side, head on your shoulder. You wrap your arm around his shoulders and keep him close, and when he falls asleep-and of course he does, after a cry like that-his hand is curled against your chest.

Lying here, enjoying the feeling of his breath fanning across your collarbones, you realize that perhaps you let yourself feel a little bit too much for him-you'd meant to keep yourself from falling completely, but you know as your brush his bangs from his face that you failed.

You hate yourself, you decide. You hate yourself completely-you can't-

Okay, it's one thing to love, to desire, to need. It is another intirely to desire and need and want more than anything else to possess, and you've realized you do. You want to possess Dave, you want to see your marks across his pretty neck and you want him to wear your clothes and you want him to be yours before he is anything else, you want him to want to be yours.

You start buying him things-nothing big, but little things here and there: A record he's had his eye on, a shirt that makes you think of him, cool gloves and scarves and hats when it gets cold. He uses the things all the time-you splurge one day and get him a grade-A set ofheadphones that only ever seem to leave him when he showers and when he sleeps. He thanks you profusely every time, offers to repay the favor, and you deny him every time, telling him that you hadn't gotten him any of it so he'd do the same for you, you'd done it because the things reminded you of him. That seems to pacify him, and it isn't long before he's always, always using or wearing something you got him.

You wonder if he'll ever question it, sometimes. You wonder if he'll ever figure it out and be disgusted. If he'll run or kick you out. If he'll hate you or try to go on like nothing happened, kindly asking that you not get him things anymore. Slowly, you become more hesitant to give him things directly-you leave them in his room, on his desk or bedside table or the food of his bed. You miss seeing the look on his face when he sees them, but at least this way, you won't have to see it when everything finally clicks and he no longer wants anything to do with you.

You're relieved every time he pads into your room smiling, in one of his-your hoodies and a pair of pajama pants, and asks to watch you tinker for a while, or asks if he can hang out, or asks if he can sleep with you tonight-which is something he's doing increasingly frequently lately, once a week at the very least. Your personal bubble was popped the moment the two of you had woken up together after his meltdown, and so there's no shame from either side as you curl together, and you always sleep easier when Dave shares your bed.

It's one of these occasions that you kiss for the first time.

(As well as the second and third and fourth and god by then you lose count and have no care for keeping it any longer.)

You settle in before Dave this time, lying in the center of the bed with one knee raised and your arm over your eyes-it isn't the first time by a longshot, as you usually turn in a little early when you two sleep together. The bed dips on the side nearest the door-ah, here he is-and though you're ready for the way his body settles against yours, you aren't at all prepared for the featherlight press of his lips to yours. You do nothing at first-how could you, when he pulls away so quickly?-but move your arm when he hides his face against your shoulder, concerned when you feel him trembling. You touch his shoulder and he flinches, pressing closer instead of pulling away, and you don't know if you should be glad that you're his comfort even when you're also his fear or hurt to your core because he honestly thinks you're going to hurt him, thinks that you have the capability. "Hey," you whisper, throat dry, "Hey, look at me. Come on, Dave, look at me."

He lifts his head slowly, expression open. "I'm not mad." "You're not?" he murmurs back, and you shake your head. "No. Not at all." His relief is obvious, and you give him a little smile. "Thought you'd be disgusted," he says shyly, slowly, and you shake your head. "I'm glad." "Glad?" He obviously wasn't expecting that, and you laugh quietly. "Close your eyes," you hum, and he does so, hands clasped in the center of his chest. "Now stay still." Carefully, you shift to lean over him, kissing him solidly. You can feel his fingers convulse, but he doesn't move his hands. You kiss him again, again, again, and smile against his lips. "You can move now." You feel more than hear his, "Thank god," and then his arms are around your neck tightly, holding you close so he can press up and peck your lips over and over.

You don't know how long it takes the two of you to fall asleep, but you're smiling when you do.

"What does this mean?" he asks in the morning, head against your shoulder again, tracing over the words on your shirt: 20% Cooler. "Do you want it to mean something?" you ask, and he pauses. "...it doesn't have to," comes his quiet reply, and you can hear the hurt, can feel it in the way he tenses, and rush to fix it, squeezing him tightly. "I want it to," you tell him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, and he nods, pressing closer. "Me too," you hear him whisper, and for a long, long time, all you do is hold him close.


End file.
